Page 17 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘I did not. I gave you one.’ She frowned. ‘My kisses are very expensive. You should be grateful I am so gracious.’
‘You think my kisses are free? Because they are not. They are so expensive that I don’t think you can afford one. You would need ten pins to afford one of my kisses.’ He gripped her chin. A daring amusement sparkled in her eyes. ‘I have no choice but to steal it back.’
Arley caught Vivianne in his arms, and as he dipped her, like some dashing knight on the stage, she squealed playfully until he brought his mouth to hers. At first, he kissed gently, mirroring her, but when she linked her arms behind his neck and pulled him closer, he tightened his hold. Her lips parted, and he accepted the invitation to kiss deeper, slower, with a languor like they were caught timeless and hidden, not bent into a sublime embrace in the middle of a gravel path beneath the dripping trees in the Luxembourg Gardens. A brazenness roared in him. How fantastic to catch a beautiful woman in his arms and kiss her, grasp her hips, tangle his fingers in the damp ribbons in her hair and not give a damn.
Vivianne pulled him closer. Arley raised them both to standing. With a delicate nip of her lip, he set her free.
She took a step back, blinking fast, and reached her hand through the air as if searching for a pillar to steady herself on, but finding none, instead swayed. She shook her head until she focused on him, and her slightly dazed expression darkened to annoyance. ‘That was too much,’ she snapped. ‘You get six places now. No more.’ She pushed back her soggy hair, spun on her foot, and marched away.
‘It was worth it,’ he called to her retreating back. She waved her hand in the air in dismissal. Arley touched his lips. They still burned. He inhaled, trying to imprint the smell, the taste, the sensation of Vivianne into his memory. ‘Completely, frustratingly worth it,’ he mumbled to himself, then began the long walk back to his hotel.
Chapter Eight
‘Youaredoingitagain.’ Nicole said. She stood beside Vivianne at the bar, the pair of them watching each other in the mirror. Nicole bent, then extended onto her toes.
‘I am not.’ Vivianne could have played coy, but she knew what Nicole was alluding to and she wasn’t in the mood. ‘I am only showing him the city.’
‘Every time you pin your hopes on a man, they disappoint you. This one will be gone soon. You should be looking for your next meal. Another duke, or a merchant from the patrons. Not playing guide to some workerAnglais.’
The shape of Nicole softened and blurred. Vivianne steadied herself on the bar. Herpetit déjeunerof bread and coffee had been hours ago, and now, her belly protested at being ignored for so long. But her diminishing funds did not stretch to lunch, so she had arrived at Garnier with a grumpy stomach.
Today would be her last day with Arley, and by days end, she would have coins in her pocket. And she would see the back of the Englishman with no prospects, soft lips, and hands that set her skin aflame…
Vivianne blinked hard and brought her vision back to Nicole. The kiss had been nothing but a moment’s lapsed judgement.Neveragain.
He had smelt as she imagined an English garden to be like. Fresh, light, and sweet. Arms that held her like she was delicate, lips as firm as a demand. He teased at her thoughts, as did the soft rasp of his chin, and the sweet prod of his tongue.
Vivianne wiped away the succulent memory. Never,everagain.
In the short time since Garnier had opened, dancers, singers and musicians had been catapulted to notoriety. Paris threw off the years of war, revolution and deprivation, so that she could embrace frivolity and joy. Men sought to catch the ascendent star and make them theirs, and many a naïve ballerina had confused the attention with love, only to find themselves abandoned and heartbroken when a new star caught everyone’s attention. The men who came to the theatre were a currency. Dancers who forgot were likely to find themselves without support and without a stage.
It would not be her. She knew the price. She paid it too often.
‘Excusez-moi, mesdemoiselles. Flowers.’ Guillemot, one of the men who manned the stage door and was known to take coin from infatuated men to deliver flowers and gifts to the dancers, stood in the archway into the practice room. In his arms he held a bunch of red roses, dark as blood and crisp as paper. Against the pragmatic wash of the walls, and his tattered black suit, the roses exploded with colour.
Vivianne’s heart held her chest captive, its slow beat dictating her breath. She’d never been sent flowers before. Had Arley thought of her lips, as she had thought of his?
‘For you, Mademoiselle Nicole.’ Guillemot held them out. Nicole gave a high cry, then skipped across the room and gathered the blooms into her arms.
Vivianne’s stomach rumbled and with it, her indignation. What horror to feel such envy, such bitter green jealousy for her friend who had plucked her from obscurity and provided her with the opportunity to bring her toes to the stage. But as much as she detested it, she could not control the swell of exasperated frustration and contempt that moved through her as she traced the beauty of each delicate rose. The duke had sent her flowers. Nicole brought the bunch to her perfect nose, and as a petal kissed her lips, she closed her eyes to inhale not just the majestic fragrance but the promise of something more. Of a future.
‘Love is not for us,’ Nicole said as she laid the roses on a chair and returned to the bar. ‘I know he is charming, but he will not send you a bouquet like that. He cannot afford them. And if he cannot afford roses, he cannot afford the rest of you.’
Nicole stayed in the practice room, while Vivianne went to change. She’d already spent too long with the Englishman, enjoying too much of his company as they walked the streets and talked. The firm line of their negotiation had created a barrier around what men normally wanted from her—her body—but with the change, other parts of her had become exposed, and he grabbed them before she could protect them with a price. He brought out her humour, cared about her opinions, followed her advice on which restaurant should go onto his list because it had the best soup, or the freshest bread. And yesterday, to see a man crumble before her, sharing his vulnerability, then watching the rain wash away his stiffness… had she ever been treated that way? Kissed that way? Not since the days of the siege, when her hands had been needed for helping and her feet had walked endless stretches of despair had she been wanted for somethingmore.
But this was a new Paris, with new rules, and this play between them had to stop. Or he’d need to start sending her flowers, even if it was with the duke’s coin.
Today, she’d show him one last place. Then, she’d sayau revoir. Today, she’d keep her distance. Her bodyandher mind.
Changed, wearing her sturdy boots, Vivianne descended through the layers of Garnier until she arrived at the stage door, then stepped outside. Although the sun blazed, the wind bit, and she pulled her shawl around her as she stepped out into the chill. The breeze blew much colder than the day before, and a few flecks of sleet swirled on the wind.
Arley stood waiting, leaning against the stone arch. Even hunched into his collar and with his cap pulled down over his curls, he was beautiful. With the door’s creak, he looked up. His face fine cut, like crystal, brightened, his smile alone enough to shatter light.
Non, Vivianne. One last place. You need to move on.
‘Don’t you own another suit? Can’t your duke buy you a nicer waistcoat?’ she huffed as she trudged over the stones. As she approached, he straightened, pulled off his cap and held out a handful of flowers. Daffodils, tulips and ranunculus, their stems not cut, but torn, and held together only by his palm, instead of with paper and ribbon. ‘Did you steal those?’ she snapped.
‘Define steal,’ he said. He pulled them back a little, toward his chest, like a shield. ‘They made me think of you. They’re so bright, and pretty. I wanted you to have them.’
